Ladies do not cry
by whitetiger91
Summary: "Weren't witches supposed to be highly emotional creatures? Was she broken?" Poor Orion Black. It seems not only has he lost his son, but now he is losing his wife to her insanity. Can he work out the complicated emotions of a witch? Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, round 3. Prequel to 'Sacrifice' if you will.


**Ladies Don't Cry**

**-1979-**

**_A/N: I do not own any of the characters you recognise._**

**_This was written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, round 3. My prompts for this round were: (word) inkling, (word) unravel, (poem) 'Whenever I Have Fears' by John Keats. This round's task, as Chaser 1, was to write about my OTP dealing with death. I don't have a particular OTP but I have somehow been drawn of late to Walburga and Orion's relationship- complicated to the minds of everyone but them. This is therefore a sort of prequel to my fic 'Sacrifice'._**

**_I had to research several of the poem's interpretations to ensure I was on track, and basically the author feared that he would die before his time- that is, before he could marry the girl of his dreams and before his poems were published. Ironically, it did happen, but he questioned whether it was worth spending his time being so worried. I tried to use this theme as best as I could, as well as incorporating several lines throughout (in my own words of course). In other notes the Theodore Nott mentioned refers to Nott Sr, not his son also named Theodore in Harry's year… I thought being a traditional family he may have named his first son after himself._**

**_I hope you enjoy this and thank you for reading! A humungous thank you to the lovely Gitana del Sol and The Lady Arturia for being my beautiful beta's! Go Falmouth!_**

* * *

"Damn those wretched elves!" Orion muttered, rubbing his brittle hands up and down his arms. "Do they expect us to freeze to death?"

Winter was cold at the best of times, yet this season had been particularly fierce. Outside the large oval windows, the wind howled ferociously. Low-lying branches batted at the glass, almost as though they were begging to be let in, Thick layers of white slush covered patches of the lawn, making a base for the blankets of snow that would soon cover the ground in the weeks to come.

Orion shivered again, reminding himself to punish the despicable creatures for allowing the fire to die out. Those vile elves knew he was getting on in age, how dare they allow him to be at risk of catching a cold? No, they were probably too stupid to think of that themselves.

Pushing open the solid oak doors and striding over to the sitting room's large fireplace, he brandished his wand. A quick flick to the left and upwards, and the coals soon burst into large orange flames. Orion watched them for a moment; entranced by the way they danced and flickered, their sharp tongues licking at the wood, painting it black. The fire seemed to have such life, such passion. It was more than he could say any living person in the house had. He was so absorbed in inspecting it that he almost missed the bitter demand of the voice that carried over to him from the far corner of the room.

"Turn that out, dear, it is much too hot in here," Walburga grumbled.

Spinning around, Orion quickly schooled his face into a look of cool appraisal, rather than the shock it had exposed. His wife was sitting at the desk, head down and back as straight as ever. She was busy scrawling something on a piece of crisp white parchment, sparing no time to glance his way.

"It's freezing," he muttered, walking over to her without putting the fire out.

Walburga had been in this room since they had returned from Regulus' memorial service at noon. He had expected her to unravel the moment that they had gotten home, for her to screech and rage, to scream and howl and plead for their only son to come back. Orion had never been an emotional man himself but even he felt the loss of Regulus; he had been proud to know his son was an example to which all wizards could look up to. It was thus only natural that she, as his mother, would need some time to recover, and, like all women, would need some private time to gather her thoughts. With a quick peck on her pale cheek, he had left her to mourn as she had sat upon the stiff lounge, her hand placed neatly in her lap.

By now, however, he had anticipated that she would have been ready to retire to their room, as evening was now well and truly upon them.

She seemed intent on finishing whatever she was doing, and as he peered over her shoulder, he was unsure what it was. A list of names of witches and wizards, all from good Pureblood stock, were printed neatly down the page, some crossed out with a bold black line of ink. Underneath, several of the names had been placed around perfect hand-drawn circles, representing a sort of seating arrangement.

Peering down at the names, he saw old Cantankerus Nott had been included, as well as his son, Theodore. This perplexed him, for neither one had bothered to show at the memorial; surely Walburga had not yet lost her mind and was planning another service? Surely she had not fallen that deep into delusion by her despair?

"What's this?" Reaching over her shoulder and lifting the parchment, he raised a fine eyebrow in question.

Walburga's hand snapped up like a serpent striking, snatching the parchment and placing it back upon the desk. Smoothing the corner that had been crumpled by her sudden grasp, she resumed marking it with ink.

"Plans."

"I can see that. Plans for what?"

Sighing heavily, Walburga looked up at him with the most irritable expression. It was as though what she was doing was the most obvious thing in the world, and Orion's patience was tested as she huffed in annoyance.

"The Winter Ball, of course. It's in a fortnight, yet the other ladies have failed to prepare for it—as usual. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I must get organised. There is much to do."

With a wave of her hand, she dismissed him.

Something was off. Orion supposed he should feel glad that she was so easily fitting back into her normal life, getting on with her work and not dwelling on her emotions. Perhaps, as he had intended, she had shed enough tears earlier and could spare no more.

Yet, as he peered closer at her, taking in the fine lines illuminated by the fire's glow, he could find no evidence of tears. There were no clumps and no smudges. No red rims, no darkened blotches of skin from wet foundation. Of course, she could have easily wiped them away at some point, ensuring that her appearance remained kempt but something was not right.

To her right, a large pile of books were stacked haphazardly, some pages marked with emerald ribbons, and others with torn pieces of parchment. As his eyes scanned their spines, he saw that many of the titles pertained to party planning, including a purple book titled _Madame Denzie's Perfect Placements_ and a scarlet tome, _Shine that Chandelier! A Lady's Guide to the Finer Details_, opened to a chapter on the difference between bone white and ivory tablecloths.

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, Orion felt unsettled. His stomach churned, an uncomfortable swirling that could have sent shivers up any other wizard's spine. Was his wife broken? Walburga may not have been one of the most affectionate of witches – she hadn't even cried at her own parents' funerals – but that was simply because she was upholding the dignity expected of their status. She had just lost her only son, shouldn't she have crumpled up, at least for an hour, refusing to do anything but grieve? Weren't witches supposed to be highly emotional creatures?

The way she sat as though she was indifferent to recent events scared him, and it was a feeling he did not care to ever have. He was being silly, of course, Regulus' loss was playing on his own mind. Nevertheless, he followed his inkling to probe her, if anything, for peace of mind that he was not married to a witch who fell into madness for being so berated by grief.

"Are you ready to retire for the night, dear? Or would you like more time to, uh, lament? Your planning can wait."

"I do hope the new silverware arrives on time. How inconsiderate of the goblins to enter the war when I need them to forge new table sets. Loathsome beings."

"Walburga, did you hear me?"

"I have no time for this. If you'd please, I need to concentrate."

His heart was now thumping violently as sweat began to form on his skin. She wasn't broken, she was just being stubborn. There was nothing to worry about. She was absolutely fine.

"Would you like the elf to fetch you a handkerchief? Perhaps some calming draught?"

"Whatever for?"

"Regulus! Regulus, Walburga, Regulus! You just buried your son and yet all you can think about is dinner plates? At the very least, we should be arranging to find a new heir!" His voice rose and hurried to take a long, relaxing breath. This was more than he felt he could handle, especially so late at night.

Walburga's quill momentarily stopped scratching at the mention of their son's name. She seemed to rise from the chair, her head held high as her chest heaved up and down. Not a moment later, though, she resumed writing, still not looking up from the oh-so-interesting parchment before her.

Minutes ticked by before she finally replied, her voice bored. "We didn't bury him. There was no body, remember? Now, may I continue in peace?"

Orion was flabbergasted, now not bothering to hide his dismay. No one in the world, no human being, let alone any woman, had ever managed to confuse him so. What was she playing at?

She was doing this on purpose, winding him up so that he questioned all he knew about witches. Was it punishment for not commenting on her new robes last week? For not allowing her to stuff the last elf who dared die in their service? He was never wrong about these things. This wasn't normal. His head was spinning, stomach now flip-flopping painfully as the sheen of sweat now covered his brow. What was happening? Had she really, finally, cracked?

"Absolutely not! We just lost our heir, our only son! Dammit, why are you not crying? Look at me!" Orion's voice rose more than he intended, shaking as it had never done so before.

Slowly, almost agonisingly so, Walburga turned her pale blue eyes upon him. She seemed to consider him for a moment, appearing almost as though she was questioning his intelligence. Her thin lips parted several times, as though carefully considering how to explain it as though he were a whiny child denied a treat.

"Because ladies do not cry," she simply replied.

Orion stood there, glaring at her unconcerned form. His body shook, uncouth thoughts now running rampant through his mind. She was lying, playing him for a fool. Of course ladies cried, perhaps not in public, but at least in the confines of their house, surely?

She sighed again, rolling her eyes as his own mouth gaped open.

"How working-class of you to get so worked up over death. Our son died serving the Dark Lord, ensuring that the Great Cause will be successful. He did not fear his death like so many other men would; not like those so-called 'followers' he hung around with. As far as I am concerned, as you should be, it was enough just to serve Him. Are you not proud of him?"

Walburga nodded her head, seemingly convincing herself of her own words. Enough was enough.

"Of course I'm proud of him! I am delighted he served the cause and fulfilled his duty! Yet you are acting irrational, unfeeling. You proclaim that you are proud, but you do not act as though you loved him, at least not as I expect a mother should. It is unbecoming of you. I will not tolerate it!"

Orion began to pace the room, jaw clenched. His movements were jerky, feet stomping as they wore a path into the fresh carpet. He wanted to shake her, to make her feel something. Anything. Moving to the door, he made to leave.

Walburga fixed a fierce glare upon him. She began to tremble as a pale hand shot out towards the ink pot, clutching it tightly. In a voice so quiet it bordered on a whisper, she seethed, "How dare you say that I did not love him?"

Without warning, she threw the inkpot at him. It soared through the air, barely missing his head. The glass pot shattered, falling to the floor like a thousand crystal pieces of her sanity. Ink dripped down the wall like dragon's blood, thick and black, almost tar-like.

For moments, neither moved nor spoke. Finally, teeth gritted and not looking at his wife's deranged form, he continued to the door, muttering "Well, that was certainly not very ladylike," on his way.

Pausing at the doorway, all he could hear of her response was a muted sniffle. He supposed that she was probably upset now about the stain the ink would leave on the new wallpaper; a quick _Scourgify_ would easily remove it, but Merlin forbid she look up from her party planning to do so. At least he now knew she could cry. Sighing, he turned around to say as much.

Walburga was facing the desk, her hands placed flat atop its surface. As expected, her posture was perfect, save for the slight rise and fall of her shoulders. Her breathing was shallow, coming out in quiet gasps, barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

Spotting a glistening crystal on her cheek, he stopped and strode over to her, huffing slightly to show how much of an inconvenience it was.

"What are you still doing here? I do not desire your company right now." Her voice was hoarse, but not quite enough to disguise the iciness within.

"Look at me."

Her head shook from side to side, causing the tear to trickle down her face. Stepping forward, Orion placed an arm somewhat awkwardly on her frail shoulder. Walburga tried to shrug him off, but soon slumped in defeat.

Pale blue eyes finally turned to him, though they were focused upon his brow rather than his own dark orbs. He could see the tears swimming behind them, stopping himself just in time from wiping away another that had escaped past her long lashes.

"So, you can cry?"

"I- I-"

Rapidly turning her head away, she fumbled around in the pocket of her robes. It was some time before her trembling hand managed to pull out a silk piece of cloth, her initials embroidered on the corner of the delicate material, and dabbed at her eyes with it. Orion trailed his hand down her back, rubbing soothing circles on it.

"I- I- it wasn't worth it! My poor boy, I'm sure he was terrified just before his death. Standing all alone in this wide, wretched world, no one to have helped him in whatever damn task he was given! He was young, too young to die! He should be here, have a wife or be a- a- a department head or something!" Walburga suddenly screeched.

As she removed the handkerchief from her face, he could see that her eyes were red. Make-up that had been artfully applied now ran down her face, giving it the appearance of melting wax. She trembled as great sobs wracked her body, and she no longer hid her underlying emotions.

"Where is he? Where is his body? Do you know what I wouldn't give to be able to hold him once more, to look upon his handsome face?" Her rough hands clawed at her head, pulling wisps of greying hair from her slicked-back bun. "I need him back! Not our heir, _my son_!"

Surprising even himself, Orion tugged on her arm, forcing her to stand. Perhaps it was relief that she wasn't broken, that she was finally acting as she should, that made him drag her up and pull her from the room. Or perhaps it was that the more tears fell, the more his heart felt as though it was being squeezed, as though someone was trying to wrench it from his chest. He should have been excited that she was finally behaving as expected, yet the swirling of his stomach had only given way to an agony he had never before felt, one that threatened to spill tears from his own eyes.

He wanted it to stop. He wanted her to stop. The tears he had begged her for were no longer desired, and he had to get rid of them.

He guided Walburga down the hall and several flights of stairs. He did not stop until they reached the back of the house, ignoring the curious stares of ancestral portraits as they tried to decipher where the racket was coming from.

Passing through the glass doors, Walburga tailing along next to him obediently, he quickly spotted the best place to sit, the place that would put an end to this fiasco. Dewy grass sloshed beneath their feet as the trees whispered secrets unknown to man, their branches swaying steadily with the rampant wind. Amidst her crying, he could see Walburga wince as her shoes took on green stains. He had to pat her gently on the elbow, reassuring her that they would be at their destination soon.

Grateful, the pair soon sunk on to the stone bench, ignoring the hardened troll leg stumps that were supporting the base. Walburga looked at him questioningly, her eyes alight with a mix of hope and suspicion, but he shook his head, gazing upwards. It was only when he saw that the sky was momentarily free from the scattered clouds that he motioned for her to do the same. At first, a deep frown appeared on her brow, tears drying as they were replaced by confusion. However, it smoothed out as wonderment seemed to fill her, her pursed lips turning upwards ever so slightly.

Both stared up at the twinkling stars, a face of the sky that shone, almost mockingly, down at them. Orion lifted a hand, proud of his ability to still recall his Astronomy lessons, and pointed to a cluster of silver to the left that formed their favourite constellation.

"There. That is where Regulus is; you need no body to see him."

Walburga didn't say anything, just tilted her head to stare upwards, her gaze unblinking. The cold made her shudder, and she leant slightly into him, though not enough to need to rely on his arm to warm her. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched her tears dry in the wind.

Daring to confirm his suspicions that she was once more the wife he knew and needed, he quietly asked, "Better?"

Face perfectly smooth and eyes sharp once more, she replied, "Of course. Ladies do not cry."


End file.
